


open communication and other ways to kill your boss

by gayprophets



Series: elias gets bullied [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (fr if characters smoking weed isnt your thing i'd suggest not reading this), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Artifact Storage features heavily, Fix-It i guess but in the MOST insane way possible, Humor, M/M, Peter Lukas listens to beyonce and also EDM, Recreational Drug Use, Season 4 Spoilers, Season 4 canon divergence, as is my brand, author is american and also does not smoke, bit of depression/suicidal ideation but not above typical for tma, how to beat your idiot plot for dummies, if you comment an object to be in artifact storage and it makes me laugh/is interesting, inexplicable yet hysterical, it will probably feature in the fic, jon and martin WILL kiss in this. i PROMISE YOU THIS NOW., more tags tba as i figure this shit out, outrageously evil bongs, sprinkling in ocs to fill out the world as needed, there are more trans characters in this than not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21513625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayprophets/pseuds/gayprophets
Summary: There's secrets hidden in artifact storage, things that could turn every skeptic to a believer, and most of which are too dangerous to ever be in the public eye. Some of these secrets, Martin learns, hold the key to how to quit your job and kill your evil all-knowing boss! It's all in how you use them.-“We took it,” Samantha tells him dryly. “Because it belongs here.”“Can I have it back?” Martin asks.“No,” Samantha says, dragging out the O, “but youcanhave this ten page survey detailing its use and what happened!” She slides a packet across the table towards him, then steeples her fingers and smiles beatifically, because she is desperate to ruin his life.“But I need it,” Martin says, trying to work out a way to convince her without telling the true reason, because if he saysthere’s a guy in the bong I want to talk to,he’ll never see it again.“I know working with Peter must beterrible,”she says, patting him on the hand, her eyebrows raising and pressing together, the corners of her mouth tugging down in a picture of perfect sympathy. “Get a script for xanax. You can’t have a haunted bong. I mean, youcan,but you can't have ours. Go find your own!”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: elias gets bullied [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557937
Comments: 47
Kudos: 425





	open communication and other ways to kill your boss

**Author's Note:**

> thanks nathan (againstme on here) for listening to me lose my mind about this concept, and for peter lukas listening to edm. he wrote his own version of this, which you should totally read according to the two cakes theory of media creation. >>>>>>> [**Bad Trip**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21466552)

Peter isn’t the worst boss Martin has ever had. That title goes to Elias, _obviously,_ but he has a leg up on all others due to being an acolyte to a fear god from another dimension, which is unfair to his _second_ -worst boss, Daniel, who managed to be a shithead all on his own and terrorize Martin without any supernatural help. Martin still feels rage bubble up when he thinks about how he was treated there, and, if he were so inclined, he could probably still sue for wage theft and employee abuse. Elias, were he not in prison, would even probably help. He seems the type to enjoy pettily ruining someone’s life, regardless of who it is.

And Elias, for all his faults, never committed wage theft, so perhaps he and Daniel are tied on Martin’s shit boss list.

Martin is not so inclined, however, and _did_ put Elias in jail. After _pipe-murdering lunatic,_ Peter’s idiosyncrasies are barely a blip Martin’s radar. Beyond the blatant manipulation, which is not _nearly_ as subtle as he thinks it is, Peter isn’t a bad boss. Sure, Martin is always slammed with work of every variety and does half of Peter’s duties on top of it, and he never thought part of his job description would include protecting hapless librarians from being sacrificed to an extra-planar entity of cosmic horror, but at least he gets to sit down while he does it. He doesn’t have to interact with the general public, and only occasionally has to fix Peter’s computer for him when it inevitably breaks. He is, by and by large, getting paid to be alone.

Which, well. It beats retail, at least.

Also, he gets to listen to a lot more music than he used to. He, Sasha, and Tim used to have a rota of who got to pick songs while they filed, which Sasha typically used for evil, and Tim would… It doesn’t matter anymore. He gets to sit and listen to his music, which he hasn’t done in a long time, and it’s _nice._ It’s nice, it’s quiet, and it's _fine._ He’s _fine_ with it.

One of Martin’s headphones whines and gives an electronic _pop_ before shocking him painfully, which serves as his only warning before Peter suddenly looms into existence behind him and goes; “What’re you listening to?”

Martin grits his teeth and pulls out his earbuds, quickly hitting pause. “It’s- ah,” he hesitates, considering what, exactly, he can say that Peter - who used to turn off his computer via unplugging it before Martin told him to stop - will understand. “This singer named Beyoncé?” he tries. Surely even someone as… _disconnected_ as Peter would know about Beyoncé.

“Oh, I know her,” Peter says, half of a chuckle in his voice. “I listen to EDM too.”

Martin, swept away by the euphoria of not having to explain Beyoncé’s existence to his boss, takes a moment to catch up with the rest of Peter’s sentence. “What?”

“I listen to EDM,” Peter repeats. “Of course I know who Beyoncé is, Martin. I’m not _that_ out of touch.”

“Sorry,” Martin says, glancing down at his still-on phone to make sure that he _was_ listening to Love Drought by Beyoncé, and there isn’t somehow _another_ Beyoncé that Peter could _possibly_ be thinking of. “But are you _seriously_ telling me that _Beyoncé_ is an _EDM artist?”_

“Yes,” Peter says in a _do keep up_ sort of voice, which is Martin’s _very least favorite_ tone to hear from _anyone._ “I do occasionally engage in pop culture, Martin.” 

“You’re fucking with me,” Martin says blankly. He has to be. But there’s no tug at the corner of Peter’s mouth, no creasing of the wrinkles around his eyes, nothing that usually comes with Peter’s ‘jokes’. Oh God. 

“Why would I do that?” Peter asks, which is how Martin gets in a nearly _20 minute long_ argument with his boss, an Avatar of Existential Terror, about _EDM,_ which culminates with Martin unlocking his phone up again to _cite sources._

“See, it says right here!” Martin snaps, desperate, “With _one_ google search, Beyoncé does pop, hip hop, and contemporary R&B. _Nowhere here does it say EDM.”_ He thrusts his phone up into Peter’s face.

“She does EDM,” Peter says, not bothering to look at it. 

_“She does not!”_ Martin replies, his voice going high and embarrassingly shrill. “Do you need me to look up the _definition of EDM?!_ I’m doing it,” he says as he frantically, desperately types, and then reads: _“EDM is music intended for dancing to in clubs, typically having a repetitive beat and a synthesized backing track._ Beyoncé is _just_ not EDM, _Peter.”_

“No,” Peter says, dryly, like _Martin_ is the one being an idiot here. “EDM is anything that has electronic stuff in it. Like one of those… whatsits,” he mutters to himself for a second. “Synthesizer things. Beyoncé has those.”

“That’s not- she’s not- that just isn’t -,” Martin splutters, genuinely at a loss for how to deal with anything that is happening right now. 

“‘Course it is,” Peter says, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back onto his heels. He is a good foot taller than Martin, who had at some point leapt to his feet without noticing.

“It’s just _not!”_ Martin says. “Like, it’s just not EDM! Beyoncé just _isn’t_ EDM!”

“Says who?” Peter says, arching a thick grey eyebrow, a bit of a sneer beginning to curl his upper lip. 

_“Everybody!”_ Martin bursts out, shouting.

“Not _me,”_ Peter says, like it’s an actual argument. Which, Martin realizes with no small amount of horror, for a rich old white man with a God complex it probably _is._ Martin frantically considers his options, unfortunately none of which include jumping out a window and running away, because Peter shunted him into this tiny shoebox of an office and he doesn’t _have_ any. 

He sits back down at his desk and looks away, covering his mouth with his hand, and takes a deep breath. “Okay, Peter,” Martin says, feeling both his moral backbone and will to live rapidly slipping away from him, “Beyoncé does EDM. Fine.”

“Right!” Peter says. “Glad we got _that_ sorted out.” He withdraws a cardboard box from his coat, the size of which one could, perhaps, keep a grapefruit within. It’s been sealed with many layers of zebra print duct tape. “Back to business, now. Bring this down to Artifact Storage.” Martin holds a hand out, but Peter reaches past him to set it on the desk. Martin shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, Peter is gone, thus ending the longest conversation Martin’s ever had with the man.

Martin sighs and picks up the box, which rattles disconcertingly in his grip like there’s something alive inside it. Artifact storage indeed. He stands up and puts on his jacket - it’s always cold in there.

Artifact storage is also in the basement, though one level above, making the Archives technically a sub-basement. The thick grey metal door is locked, and the ID reader has been removed, so he raps on it politely, right next to a handmade poster he’s never seen before declaring in fuchsia block letters: **_NO LIBRARIANS ALLOWED!!_ ** He also waves up at the blinking camera in the corner, just in case. Whatever is in the box shakes unnaturally once more, harder this time. 

“Just a tick!” someone calls. Martin leans his back against the wall and waits for a few minutes - he thinks about knocking again, but he has his reservations about the cardboards ability to hold up against whatever is inside the box and would like to keep a two handed grip.

Eventually, he hears multiple bolts slide, chains rattle, and locks click, and the door swings open. 

“Hey, you!” Samantha, one of the… _guards_ would probably be the most accurate term for the folks working here - says happily, pulling him inside. “Long time no see! Bring any baked goods for us?” She quickly shuts the door and does up all the locks again - one of the chains is connected to a legitimate maze, and there’s a bolt that goes into the concrete floor. You have to be insane to work in artifact storage. Every time Martin’s ever brought them food he’s had to eat a portion of it that they chose at random to prove it wasn’t somehow poisoned or cursed, which he now understands on a level he wishes he didn’t. They _can_ quit, however. They just choose not to, for reasons completely beyond him.

“Ah, not this time,” Martin says, rubbing the back of his neck. He hasn’t baked in months now. His stand mixer is covered in dust - he just can’t seem to drum up either the interest or the energy for anything more hardcore than ordering takeout or boiling water for some ramen. Whatever’s in the box makes another bid for freedom and almost lurches out of his hands. “I do have this, though,” he says, holding it out to her. “A gift from the new boss.”

Samantha wrinkles her round nose at the box, but takes it. “God, what a _twat._ Elias at least emailed us about new acquisitions beforehand. Sorry about the wait, by the by,” she says, and after so long not talking to anyone but Peter, her sudden tonal shifts leave Martin a little rattled. “We were feeding the puppies.”

“Puppies?” Martin asks, brightening up. 

“Come see!” Samantha says, gripping the box tighter as it rattles at her. She swivels on her sensibly heeled ankle boots and stalks off, giving Martin no choice but to trail behind her. “You don’t scare me,” she tells the box. “I’m bigger and meaner than you.” Given that her biceps are bigger around than the box, he’s inclined to agree with that sentiment.

The _puppies,_ as it turns out, are two sweaty-looking blobs of meat, about the size of Martin’s head. They’re locked in reinforced metal cages and are currently oozing over what looks to be the remnants of a happy meal. Two long, bright yellow cattle prods hang on the wall beside them, and two toys sit on top of the cages - Captain America and Groot leer painfully at them, begging for release from their plastic prisons.

“Aren’t they cute?” Samantha asks, as one of the meat blobs makes a wet sucking noise and spits a slimed upon french fry onto the metal cage floor.

“Very,” Martin replies, weakly. 

“Elias used to get us meat and bones and such from the butchers to feed them,” she tells Martin conspiratorially. “He was _super_ specific about their diets, but they _really_ like McDonalds, so I’d supplement it sometimes! And then he’d send these nasty little emails like ‘only feed subjects #2341 and #2342 what has been given to you, _thank you in advance’,_ with his stupid 20 line long signature, but like, he’s a murderer now and not the boss of me anymore, so whatever, right?”

“Right,” Martin says, trying to figure out the consequences of giving the Flesh chicken mcnuggets.

“Come off it, Sammy,” someone says behind them, and Martin’s glad that Peter has mostly gotten rid of his startle reflex at this point, because he did _not_ hear them coming. He turns to see Jake? Jackson? - Martin’s been getting progressively worse with names the more time he spends around Peter - walking towards them, hands in his pockets. “Don’t scare the man off with your monstrosities, remember his cinnamon rolls? Godly.” He holds a fist out, which Martin bumps gently. 

“Come off it, _Jonesy,”_ Samantha mocks back, smiling as she presses a finger to the fine mesh just above where the meat monster can reach - although it does try, slamming with stunning speed and force into the cage with a loud _bang._ Martin takes a big step back. “Don’t be mean to my dogs!”

“Sorry mate,” Jones says, shrugging, fixing her with a look dripping with loving disapproval. “She’s obsessed with these things.”

“Am not,” Samantha says, cross. “I just think they’re cool! I keep trying to get Elias - well, Peter now - to approve a new budget so I can get some knock-out gas and try to see what’s inside them, but he won’t approve it,” she tells Martin, straightening up. “Quite rude.”

“Quite,” Martin echos, having been the one to veto the request sent Peter’s way. Peter refuses to look at anything money related, claiming that it gives him ‘headaches’. 

“Martin brought us a new artifact from Peter,” Samantha says, brushing past the two of them and setting off at a rapid clip towards where their offices must be. Artifact storage honestly reminds Martin a little of a warehouse, or the storeroom of a museum. Everything is _meticulously_ organized, directories and numbered labels on every metal shelf, the items all tagged. Spike tape covers the concrete floor in meandering pathways, leading them around. There’s the occasional glass case that contains a piece of jewelry or some other oddity, and Martin glances curiously at everything as they pass. Then he peeks into one of the glass cases and sees a pair of children's shoes that look to have actual human tongues as theirs, and walks a little faster, deliberately not looking around. 

“Did he now!” Jones says, then suddenly grabs Martin by the arm and brusquely moves him onto the other side of a line drawn on the floor with hot pink spike tape. Martin hadn’t noticed it. “That’s one of our ‘shit that sets you on fire’ sections,” Jones tells him kindly. “Stay on the other side of the pink lines, sometimes stuff gets cranky if you walk too close. How’s the new boss?”

Martin grimaces. “He’s - well, he’s himself -,” he starts, and then realizes that he’s among peers here, and Peter is deeply unlikely to be trailing him like a creep given his distaste for being near more than two people at once, so he can actually complain. “Oh my God, he thinks _Beyoncé_ makes _EDM.”_

“What?” Jones says.

“No she doesn’t!” Samantha says, turning to walk backwards and giving Martin an incredulous look. The box shakes in her hands and she shakes it back. “You’re fucking with us.”

“That’s what I said!” Martin cries, throwing his hands in the air. They come up to a veritable blast door, which Jones produces a key to unlock and let them all in. “I googled the _definition of EDM_ and he told me I was _wrong!”_

“Well, what does _he_ think it is?” Samantha asks, waving to the other person in the room. It’s furnished by a big round table and multiple comfy looking office chairs. There’s a wealth of monitors on the back wall, showing Artifact Storage from all sorts of camera angles, and a kitchen along the other, complete with a full sized fridge, an oven, a microwave, and a sink. Dozens of unlit candles litter the counter, and there’s a normal wooden door open into a bathroom. The other wall is taken up by filing cabinets, another blast door, and what must be one-way glass - with the addition of metal bars. The window looks into a room containing a wooden table and a coat rack, from which hang a rubber butchers apron, thick welding gloves, and a welders mask. The person in the room with them, pale and sharp faced in high contrast to Samantha’s tan skin and Jones’ genial roundness, tosses them all a wrong-handed salute and grins. Their steel toed boots are up on the table. Martin _knows_ he knows them, and for the life of him cannot even _begin_ to guess at their name.

“Anything with a synth,” Martin tells Samatha, despairing. “Hi,” he greets as Jones turns to shut and lock the door again.

“Clarke,” they say, somehow knowing he doesn’t remember their name. They’re reading a book titled _Tomatoland._ “Good to see you, Martin. I touched a bracelet that makes it so nobody can remember your name for longer than a conversation, having _foolishly_ assumed nitrile gloves would protect me. It’s fine.” The explanation is said in a rush, like they’ve got a script they’re reading off of, or checking it off a list.

“Oh, okay,” Martin says. “I’m… Sorry?” he tries, and they shrug amiably, folding down a corner of their page before setting their book down.

“Present for you,” Samatha says, then slides the box across the table towards Clarke, who’s forced to play hot potato with it as it does its level best to try and escape to the floor. “You seem stressed, Martin. You should try weed.”

Martin rubs his eyes. “I do, _frequently,”_ he grumbles. “I even brought some in today but I forgot papers, because I’m an idiot.”

“Nice!” Jones says, slapping him on the back. “Smoking at work, right on. Fuck the man.”

“I mean,” Clarke says, and the box makes another bid for freedom. They shake it aggressively, and it settles into whatever is inside scratching at the cardboard, a noise that makes Martin’s hair stand on end and makes them pat the top in appreciation. “We _do_ have bongs here.”

Martin makes a noise he hopes roughly translates to _why the fuck do you have bongs?!_

“That’s what _I_ said when _I_ found out!” Clarke exclaims.

“Even supernatural horrors need to let loose sometimes,” Jones says, nodding sagely.

“As if a bong isn’t cursed enough on its own,” Samantha chirps, moving candles out of the way before hopping up to sit on the countertop. 

“Why are they - _what_ -,” Martin tries, a little wildly. His brain, he thinks, is going to give out on him.

“One of them literally makes you high,” Clarke says. “As in, I floated up to the ceiling and broke my nose on the floor when it let me go the first time I used it. The second one sets you on fire!”

“We don’t know what the third does,” Jones says, “because ‘sets you on fire’ really takes the wind out of your testing sails.”

“What is _in_ this?” Clark asks, giving the box another little shake. The scratching increases in volume. “Stop that,” they tell it. It scratches harder.

“No idea,” Martin tells them. “I’ll test that bong for you.”

Jones makes a face at him and folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea, mate.”

“Why not?” Martin says. “It sounds like either I’m greatly inconvenienced for a while or I die, and I’m already _greatly inconvenienced.”_ He also is pretty sure that if whatever the bong does could kill him, Elias would figure out a way to put a stop to it.

(There’s also a very small part of him that doesn’t care if this thing kills him that he’s refusing to acknowledge, because if he accepts it as real, it probably means he should go to therapy, and he doesn’t really have time for that right now. It’s fine.)

“Only one way to find out,” Clark says, swinging their feet off the table, zipping up their leather jacket, and sweeping into the side room, shutting the blast door behind them. They tie on the apron and pull on the mask and gloves, which Jones and Samantha cluster around the window to watch with interest. Martin hangs back, being possessed of survival instincts. They pull a knife out of a sheath attached to their belt - double edged with a bone handle, into which is carved a pentagram - which they use to slit the tape. Carefully, they lift one of the flaps.

Something explodes out at them, attaching itself to the mask, and they yelp, staggering backwards. They quickly whip the mask off and slam the front - and the thing from the box - into the table top a few times until it lets go, at which point they stab it with the knife, pinning it to the table.

It’s a severed human hand, long nails painted a chipped plum, and the stub of a wrist has a delicate diamond watch on it. Its fingers twitch, straining to get off the table, but the knife through its palm appears to be too much for it.

 _“Neat!”_ the person in the room with it yells, and Martin finds he’s forgotten their name. Their dark eyes are bright and there’s two spots of color high on their cheeks. “Can one of you grab a metal box and the welding torch?”

“What do you think would happen if we put it in with my dogs?” Samantha shouts back. “Like, who would win?”

“Oh my _god,”_ Martin says, sitting at the table and putting his head down with a _thunk._ _“Please_ get me the bong.”

“We can’t do that - we can’t _potentially destroy an artifact_ -,” Jones starts, putting his hands on his hips.

 _“Hypothetically!”_ Samantha says. “Like _hell_ am I putting that thing in with my dogs! I’m not _insane,_ Jones,” Samantha snaps back, crossing her arms and wrinkling her nose at him, which makes him reach a hand out and tap her gently on the end of her nose. She smiles. 

“We’ll get you the bong, Martin,” the person in the room says as they exit, rubbing the pronounced bridge of their nose. “Thing almost broke my face,” they complain, handing the helmet off to Samantha. “Jones, did you move them? I know you’ve been _reorganizing,_ don’t front.”

“You’ve been _reorganizing?!”_ Samantha asks, looking betrayed. _“Again?!”_ Jones flushes. 

“I haven’t!” he exclaims. Everyone looks at him, the person unimpressed, Samatha outraged. “Fine,” he says, “I haven’t gotten to room B yet, they should still be there.”

The person claps Martin on the shoulder as they trot over to the door. “C’mon lad, up you get,” they say. “It’s Clarke, by the way.”

They exit the room just as Samantha and Jones are winding up to have a clearly well worn argument, the door shutting as Jones says, “I _just think_ that we should be organizing _entirely_ by what things do, not also _sometimes_ by what they are, it’ll make more _sense_ -!”

 _“Whuf,”_ Clarke says, dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from their brow. “They’ll be at it a while. Let’s get you your bong.” 

Clarke leads him to another room, this one filled with furniture - anything too big to fit in the neat and orderly rows of the main room. The aesthetic is very cheap antique shop, if a cheap antique store took a _lot_ of acid. They walk past a few things Martin recognizes - a chair Sasha had complained about, the scratching coffin, a rattling wardrobe. There’s cobwebs in every corner, and Clarke has to reach through some as they crouch down next to a metal shelving unit to drag out three cases, checking the tags attached to the handles.

“Lights you on fire, floating, and We Just Don’t Know,” Clarke taps each in turn as they speak. “Your choice, mate. I’m not liable if you kill yourself with them, and we get a copy of your autopsy, got it?” They grin, unzipping their jacket and brushing the cobwebs off the dusty brown sleeves. “There’s a tunnel thataways,” they say, pointing, then reaching into a pocket and handing him their lighter and a torch. “We put a couch in there. It’s totally normal and un-haunted, we take on it naps sometimes - don’t tell the boss. It comes up in the janitors closet on the first floor. Have fun!”

Martin takes the metal case containing the We Just Don’t Know bong and heads through the semi-hidden door, into the tunnels. There is a couch, as promised, dark green, a little ratty, and smelling like it had a previous home inside a febreeze can, with a grey microfiber blanket flung over the back of it and a plastic gallon jug of water on the floor beside it. 

Martin sits and opens the case. Inside, there’s a roughly dragon-shaped piece of ceramic - if a dragon had been dipped in acid - sitting nestled amongst soft black egg carton foam. It’s glazed a slick looking white with a greenish tinge around the edges of the scales, glinting as Martin picks it up and turns it over in the torchlight to inspect it.

The eyes are a deep, soft brown, wide, staring, and unmistakably human. Martin almost drops the bong.

 _Beholding,_ of course. Martin sighs, putting it down in its case and running his hands through his hair - it’s deeply in need of a cut, the dead, bleached ends catch and tangle around his fingers as he does so, and he has to carefully untangle the curls as he deliberates. 

He doesn’t have to do this. He can walk back out and say _thanks but no thanks,_ hand them back their bong and tell them not to fuss with it. But he would genuinely like to be high right now, and honestly, it’s not like he can get any _more_ watched.

Martin pulls out his phone and does some very shameful googling as to how to use a bong. He’s not _that_ much of a stoner. It’s not that hard, however, and soon enough he’s got an extremely pleasant buzz going, tension slowly leaching out from his shoulders, uncoiling from his spine. He rests the back of his head against the couch and breathes deep.

“Hey!” a voice says, familiar, and Martin glances around for - Jones, or - or - the other person working there, the one who isn’t Samatha, as it’s a deep voice - but the tunnel is still empty.

Slowly, he turns to look at the bong. The eyes are focused on him now, pupils contracting as he shines the torch directly on it. 

The dragons mouth opens. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” it says. “Nice to meet you, mate!”

Martin stares at it blankly for a long moment. 

“What the fuck?” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry to all you stoners out there i am not one of you and have never and will never smoke weed.  
> notes about the ocs: clarke uses they/them pronouns and a different name whenever the fuck they feel like it, because they're living my best life, and everyone in artifact storage is outrageously hot. martin just doesn't notice because hes gone on jon. 
> 
> comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated. you can find me at themlet on tumblr to make fun of me for my humor peaking at 19, because i'll literally never be funnier than this, and i came up with it 100% sober sitting in class ignoring my professor.


End file.
